


Godspeed

by ximeria



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Footnote abuse, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, cranky crowley, fed up aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ximeria/pseuds/ximeria
Summary: Things were supposed to have changed after the Armageddon didn't happen, but for some reason it's mostly the same, unless you take Crowley moping around in the bookstore into account.At some point his sour disposition is going to annoy Aziraphale enough that the angel will have to react.





	Godspeed

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a smut prompt. Yeah, that didn't happen.
> 
> Thank you to Meinposhbastard for betaing and telling me to GROW BETTER.

Aziraphale had to wonder if that age old saying about the devil and idle hands had any merit. It had been nearly a year since Crowley and he had parted with their respective sides and ever since, they had tried to find the right work-life-balance, as the humans were so fond of calling it.

Even if the work element had, quite frankly, gone missing from that sentence.

And perhaps this was what had Crowley so much on edge?

Aziraphale had to admit he'd quite enjoyed the first couple of months. No one demanding he perform miracles or thwart the opposition. His days were lovely, sometimes he'd read, sometimes he's go shop for new books - or preferably old ones. And many days he had Crowley for company. In the bookshop, out driving, walks in the parks of London, dinners in fancy - as well as common - restaurants.

And they no longer had to keep their friendship hidden.

If anyone asked him, he'd say it was a dream come true. Well, perhaps most of a dream. He'd always dreamed, nearly from the first day he'd met Crowley, that they could be openly friends. And for the last… well, if he was being honest, for the last couple of centuries, he'd hoped for something more, deep down. But he wasn't ready to rock the boat.

Crowley shifted on the couch, probably to get the last ray of sunshine that pushed through the windows of the bookshop. Aziraphale busied himself with re-organising his last purchases, having shut the store an hour earlier.

Quite frankly, if he couldn't have more, this was perfection in itself.

Crowley shifted on the couch again.

"Are you uncomfortable, my friend?" Aziraphale asked, turning to look at Crowley.

"No." Short and bordering on a sneer.

Ah, for some reason it seemed that Crowley was in a bit of a mood today. Aziraphale had noticed it before, over the years. It hadn't been often, but occasionally Crowley would withdraw and become monosyllabic in his answer, while he worked through whatever was eating him at the time. Since the world had failed to end, though, it had become a more frequent occurrence. Most days, Aziraphale just let it pass. Crowley would be back to his old wily self again in no time.

However, he'd been in one of his 'moods' three times this week already, and it was only Friday! They had a reservation at the Ritz on Saturday, and if Crowley was still in whatever 'mood' he was currently in, it would be a dreadful dinner.

It was always as if the air was charged when Crowley got like this. Like he'd lash out at anyone and anything, including Aziraphale. If anyone could talk Crowley out of this, it should be Aziraphale, shouldn't it? He was the one who knew Crowley the best. He was probably the only one who knew Crowley at all.

He'd attempted to draw Crowley into conversations several times over the past few hours, but every time Crowley would just deflect, answer yes or no in a petulant tone.

Every time, it made Aziraphale frown and sigh internally. Really, this was a millennia old demon, not a toddler in a strop.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Aziraphale pressed. Crowley hadn't taken his glasses off today either, which meant he was going to be defensive in general. The eyes truly were the windows of the soul, if a demon had one - or an angel for that matter. But with Crowley it might as well be the case. His eyes, when deigned to be visible, were so expressive, even more than the thin lips and the tilt of his head.

Aziraphale tamped down on his thoughts, partly out of habit, and partly because it wouldn't lead anywhere but the usual spiral of 'but what if he wants what I want?', 'what if he doesn't?', 'surely something would have changed by now if he did?'.

He stared unseeingly at the book he was holding in his hand.

"Crowley?" He was still focusing solely on the book in his hand, having no idea what the title was. And most certainly not looking at Crowley. "You'd tell me if you weren't satisfied with our status quo, wouldn't you?"

"I said nothing's wrong, okay, angel?" Crowley's voice was tight and all hard and sharp edges and angles.

In a tizzy again then, for whatever reason Aziraphale didn't know. He forced himself to keep reshelving the books, still not looking at Crowley. Crowley would be okay at some point. He always broke out of his funk eventually.

Normally, if Aziraphale didn't bring attention to Crowley's mood, the demon would be back to his usual self fairly fast, but today it didn't seem to. It was as if any attention was unwanted, but so was Aziraphale ignoring it.

"Doesn't it bother you, angel?" Crowley sat forward, glasses still covering his eyes. There was, however, a certain amount of agitation to his voice. He'd been laid out on the couch that wasn't long enough to accommodate his lanky form, staring at the ceiling or, at times, checking his phone.

Aziraphale paused in what he was doing, turning his head enough to look at Crowley. "Does what not bother me?" he asked as evenly as he could manage. Apparently, Crowley wanted to talk about it today. Any other time, he'd just sulk for a while and then go back to being, well, Crowley. [1]

"This... " Crowley gestured around them.

"I… quite like my bookstore, as you well know," Aziraphale answered, frowning. He wasn't at all sure where Crowley was going with this.

"Not the bookstore, angel, the whole thing, the daily humdrum, life, doing the same thing day in and day out."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You miss going about your wily ways, I take it? The lack of jobs in temptation?" The latter he added with more edge than he'd intended. He turned his head towards the bookcase again. He knew how rubbish he was at keeping his emotions off his face when he was upset, and Crowley was very slowly pushing him into that territory. If that was what the demon felt was lacking, then he could go out and tempt anyone and anything, as long as Aziraphale didn't have to hear about it.

"I don't miss the orders, you know that," Crowley huffed. "I just feel like after the End didn't happen, everything's gone back to normal."

"But that's just it, Crowley, it hasn't, has it?" Aziraphale argued. "No more orders we don't really want to follow, it's what we've always wanted." At least he'd thought it was what they'd both wanted. He hadn't been aware of how much he'd chafed under the oaf that was Heaven, or rather, that were the archangels. The orders that had to be followed, the frivolities he couldn't take too often - the memos… Aziraphale shivered at the memory.

"Yeah, no more orders, nothing to focus on," Crowley muttered. "Nothing to take my mind off…" he broke off and made a deeply unsatisfied noise.

"Then perhaps you should go and cause some mischief of your own devising," Aziraphale said, sharper than he'd intended. But Crowley's bad mood was a little contagious, and if this was what happened when he tried to help…

"It's no fun," Crowley muttered petulantly, deflating a little, sinking into the couch.

"Well, you can't sit here moping every other day, you know." Aziraphale didn't even try to stop himself. He loved this stupid creature to pieces, but there was only so much of Crowley's bad mood he could take. _Would_ take. "If you're not willing to try to change things yourself, the least you can do is be less vitriolic about it when I ask if you are alright!"

"Oh, bite me," Crowley growled.

"If you insist!" Aziraphale said, louder and cleared than he'd ever intended. "Would that help with your childish behaviour?" He hadn't meant to raise his voice at the end but really, Crowley was being terribly difficult.

The silence in the room was deafening. One would have been able to hear a pin drop - with or without angels dancing on its head.

Aziraphale felt the heat rush to his face, knew the hue of his cheeks would rival that of a ripe Eden apple.

And Crowley?

Crowley had gone very quiet. In fact, there was no sound from him, no rustle of clothes as he moved on the couch. No sound at all. Which meant that Crowley was sitting completely frozen on the couch. Now, Crowley could lounge with the best of them. Where Aziraphale leaned towards gluttony, Crowley embodied sloth, after all. However, he was rarely truly fully still.

It was possible, if Aziraphale had been a little faster, that he could have put it off as a joke, but the silence only grew to the point where it was almost deafening. And making corrections would most certainly fall flat. He stared blindly at the book he'd just put on the shelf, completely sure it shouldn't have gone there. But staring at it was better than facing Crowley at this very moment.

"Angel?" Crowley's voice was deceptively low, and more in control than Aziraphale would have ever thought.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then shut it again, no sound making it out, much to his consternation. He was capable of conversation, he excelled at putting together complicated sentences, and understood the spoken and written word of many languages. [2] Truth be told, he'd forgotten to breathe at some point and generously drew breath in to saturate his lungs. Not like they needed it, but it seemed to comfort them. It also meant the only sound escaping him was a bit of a wheezing noise.

This time there was a rustle and Aziraphale knew that Crowley had gotten up from the couch but he wasn't moving any closer.

This both comforted and vexed Aziraphale and he had no idea how to deal with either.

"Help me out here, angel," Crowley said, voice low and at a timbre that struck a chord in Aziraphale's gut. The vibration was felt lower than his gut and he had to shift to not give too much away.

Not that it was any help.

"I've had echoes of lust from you before, but I was never sure." Crowley stayed quiet for a moment. "It was always there for a second, then gone."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath, told himself that he should tell Crowley that it had been a joke.

Unfortunately, he knew it would be a lie so obvious it would be visible from space.

"This was more- angel! Like a blast of hellfire." Crowley's voice was still low, but intense like a thousand suns.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He opened his mouth, trying to at least get Crowley's name out, to please stop, to ask him to go on, to ask him to _finally_ break this _thing_ between them, whatever it was.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Aziraphale wanted nothing more, because he knew that Crowley was right. And there was no going back from this.

"Tell me, angel."

Aziraphale would never have guessed that his own name could sound so sinful, so full of lust and longing and _promise_.

And he could feel the heat from Crowley, right behind him now. Not close enough to touch, but he always exuded this heat, not demon like hellfire heat but _familiar_ heat. A _welcome_ heat.

Finally, he found his voice again. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"Why not?" Crowley asked. No accusation at all, but… a kindly phrased question.

And Aziraphale knew that he couldn't lie. It would be a mistake to do so. And he owed being truthful to Crowley.

"I always hoped I'd feel your love for me, so that I'd know any advances I might make would be welcome."

Crowley put a hand on his arm and gently turned him around.

Aziraphale wasn't surprised to find he was still wearing his glasses.

Crowley took his hand, ever so gently. The touch was… almost electrifying. And he'd always wondered what it would feel like, when it wasn't an accidental brush of the hand. Exhilarating, enticing, sending sparks through his hand, up his arm, into his chest where it burst like a thousand rosebuds flowering at once. However, it also felt soft and familiar, meant to be. Like finally coming home after having been away for so long. Then he guided it to his own chest, pushing to flatten Aziraphale's palm to it.

And he kept his own hand cupped over it. So warm, so alive.

"What do you feel?"

Aziraphale tried in vain to swallow. His throat felt dry and constricted at the same time. He wished that Crowley would take those glasses off so he could see his eyes.

"The same as always," he said honestly. It was the same familiarity that always told him that Crowley was near, that allowed him to find him in a crowd. That allowed him to breathe easier when a situation became a little too tense and he _knew_ that Crowley was close by.

It was almost impossible to describe. Like a spring breeze caressing one's neck. Like the smell of rain on soil on an early morning. Like home.

Crowley reached up with his free hand and finally took his glasses off, his gaze softer than Aziraphale could remember ever having seen it.

"It's because it's always been there, angel," Crowley said. "Since that day on the wall."

Aziraphale tried to reply, but no words would come to him.

"Yeah," Crowley said, a small self-deprecating smile curving his lips. "Six thousand years, angel, is a long time to love." He squeezed Aziraphale's hand. "I thought you could feel the love and just didn't want it - but it wouldn't stop me from loving you for another six millennia."

Aziraphale wasn't sure for how long they stood there. He couldn't say anything, couldn't tear his eyes away from Crowley's, and at some point he felt something wet roll down his cheek.

"Oh, hell, angel, didn't mean to break you," Crowley said, frowning, lifting his hand but freezing just shy of touching Aziraphale's face.

Holding the breath he didn't need, Aziraphale cupped Crowley's hand and cradled it to his wet cheek. Finally he let it all go. The doubt, the doubt that he could be loved by a demon no matter how much said demon seemed to try to show him. All of it out, with one long, heartfelt exhalation.

Crowley looked like he wanted to say something, but all he did was stare at his own hand against Aziraphale's cheek. Well, that and he kept straying to Aziraphale's lips as well. And this was familiar territory to Aziraphale, he realised, because he'd caught himself doing it often enough.

Stare at Crowley's lips and wonder what a kiss might feel like, what it might taste like. Over countless dinners, nightcaps, clandestine meetings. A smile, a curl of the lips in a half-snarl and a sarcastic remark. Would it taste acidic and sharp, or sweet and tart?

And he could, couldn't he? Have a taste. Have more. He tightened his grip on Crowley's hand and turned his head to press his lips to it, never for a second taking his eyes off Crowley's. His advances were welcomed, wanted.

He could taste his own salt.

He brought Crowley's hand to his chest and gently pushed it flat, his traitorous heart beating even faster. Which beat faster when he leaned forward, Crowley meeting him halfway in the chastest kiss in the history of kisses [3], a bare brush of lips, however enough to draw a soft sigh from Crowley that Aziraphale wished he could swallow up and safekeep for the rest of eternity.

They both stayed where they were, foreheads lightly touching, breathing the same unnecessary air, but nevertheless revelling in just that.

"I would not make you wait another six thousand years, my dear," Aziraphale said. He'd never felt so light at heart in all the time he'd had a physical body. His ethereal self was pulsing in time with every beat, exhilarated, expectant. Perched on a precipice, waiting for the perfect updraft that was about to hit, waiting to soar off into flight. He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe a century or two," he managed to choke out, half with laughter, half a hiccoughed sniffle.

Crowley drew in a quick breath, but there was no sign of hurt on his face, and his smile widened enough to tell Aziraphale that he appreciated the attempted lightening of the mood.

"Too soon, angel, too soon!" Crowley said with a small laugh.

Aziraphale shook his head, feeling the heat of Crowley's forehead against his own. "No, I should not be so cruel as to make thee wait for another breath or beat of thy heart."

"Don't," Crowley said, his intake of breath a little shaky. Colour was high on his cheeks and where he'd normally keep his eyes close to human, the amber bled sideways and Aziraphale was treated to the eyes that had first captivated him on the wall of the Garden on that first, fateful meeting.

"There you are," he whispered. "Such beauty, as the stars in the skies, like amber washed in after a storm." And he realised, once started, he couldn't stop. "Like the flaring embers of a merry fire on a cold winter's day."

Crowley made a strangled sound and Aziraphale was sure that he was going to look away. But for once, he was proven wrong, Crowley’s determined expression growing stronger. [4]

"I should be the one whispering sweet nothings to you, angel," he finally managed to say.

"Because you are the tempter of the virtuous?" Aziraphale said, smiling to take the sting out of the words.

Crowley snorted, but looked a little more in control. "No, because I've been saving up for so long, I feel like I should be baring my soul to you."

Aziraphale sighed, warmed by the love he was feeling from Crowley, finally seeing it for what it was and always had been. "But you have, my love, you have. Your eyes conceal nothing, hide no truth, in them I see your trust in me that I won't hurt you again as I have in the past when I've failed to see and understand how you felt."

"Angel, please," Crowley mumbled, eyes now half lidded as if he was under a spell. 

And perhaps he was, perhaps he was under the same spell that held Aziraphale still. The absolute conviction that he was loved and encouraged to love in return.

"You will have to get used to me pampering you with every step, telling you how much I love you in words and deeds," Aziraphale warned him gently. "For I do not love easily, nor do I love simply or by half measures. You may demand all of me as I shall demand all of you."

"All or nothing," Crowley said, voice breaking on the last word.

"For eternity or until the world truly ends," Aziraphale added.

"Don't... Angel, _fuck_," Crowley managed to get out.

"Well, at some point, though for now I think perhaps the couch and some cuddling and kissing is the best way to ease into this - we do, after all, have all the time in the world," Aziraphale said primly.

This time Crowley opened his mouth to reply but no words came out and Aziraphale felt he'd sufficiently paid Crowley back for leaving _him_ speechless with his earlier confessions.

"If you ask nicely, I might even, as you said, bite you," Aziraphale added playfully

Crowley seemed to all but liquefy in his grasp and Aziraphale sighed as he guided him to the couch. Perhaps he should slow down a little. The whimper escaping Crowley as he was manhandled onto the couch into a position where Aziraphale could comfortably cuddle up against him made him reconsider that thought. Perhaps he was going at exactly the right speed after all.

The End

* * *

1Not that Crowley couldn't be a bastard on a good day, but there was the lovable version that Aziraphale had come to love through thousands of years of friendship and then there was _this_.Return to text

2Apart from maybe French. His French hadn't been particularly good and since the Bastille, he hadn't really felt like refreshing it. He wasn't holding a grudge! He'd just had other things that took up his time and interests.Return to text

3Rivaling, perhaps, even Artemis awakening sleeping Endymion with the light brush of a butterfly kiss. To 9th-12th century Troubadours, once you kissed someone, you were connected for life, and perhaps beyond, to protect and to cherish, to honor and defend, from this time on to eternity. Only in this case, these two idiots had been stuck in each others orbits since the Garden of Eden.Return to text

4Some would call it determination, the rest of us would probably just call Crowley a stubborn bastard who wouldn't look away from the love of his life now that he knew he was allowed to look.Return to text

**Author's Note:**

> The kissing references in the footnote are from  
[THE HISTORY AND SECRET OF The Kiss](https://www.massey.ac.nz/~wwpapajl/evolution/lecture5/docs/histkiss.htm)  
by Robert Thibodeau Copyright July, 1995  
Except of course the bit about the two idiots, that was entirely my exasperation with them bleeding through.


End file.
